


Don't Wanna Walk Alone (So Let's Get Married)

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Emotional Support Dragon, Multi, Waking Up Accidentally Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 01:57:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20301559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: Sometimes, it pays to be the King of Fillori. And sometimes, diplomatic gifts from foreign nations are to be celebrated even if they have unforeseen consequences.





	Don't Wanna Walk Alone (So Let's Get Married)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fortunas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunas/gifts).

"Holy shit," Quentin said with that adorable tone of his, half puppy, half nerd, all unexpectedly attractive to Eliot who usually did not know what to do with it. Eliot was about to formulate a witty rejoinder, just as soon as he managed to open his eyes and clear a bit of the fog out of his brain.

That took him much longer than usual, however, and so instead of fighting the hangover, he turned back into his pillow and groaned. It was his bed, so they couldn’t have been that drunk anyway. Not like the time they had landed in the Dean’s—well.

The groan, in turn, netted him a slap from an arm that was suspiciously familiar. "Shut up," Margo demanded. "Unless you bring me a hangover potion. Stats. Puppy, do it." Eliot couldn't remember what they'd been doing yesterday evening, but that was just business as usual. The thing he was worried about was Quentin — Q usually wasn't so shocked about ending in bed with them, especially during one of their revelries.

Speaking of which—"Sorry Margo," Quentin said, unexpectedly close.

Eliot opened his eyes a sliver and could see nothing but adorably tousled hair for the first few seconds. Quentin's hair looked so soft and touchable, and before his mind quite woke up, Eliot's hand was already carding through it. Quentin nudged into his hand like a cat waiting to be petted. Eliot obliged and drew his fingers through the soft strands again and again. Then, finally, his mind caught up to his actions and he froze. "What did we do last night," he asked, more or less already remembering a sequence of events that could just not be true. It had been a bad idea to drink the elven wine King Idri had gifted them some odd months back, even though Eliot had tested it for poison and aphrodisiacal qualities—he might be an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid. And really, they would’ve been fine! That is, if they’d stopped at just that one bottle. Sometimes, it was honestly a bit inconvenient to have that flask that never emptied.

"As much as I love you, Eliot, shut up. This is an order from your Queen," Margo grumbled, her words half-muffled by the pillow she was speaking into.

Quentin moved, and for the first time, Eliot could see where Margo was sleeping. She was beautiful as ever, hair spilled over a few of his pillows, but the tiny dragon in her arms was new. It was softly snoring, and with every breath, a waft of smoke spilled forth.

Eliot blinked.

The dragon continued to be curled on his bed, and Margo continued with sleeping. "As much as it pains me to say this, Margo, but you do realise there’s a dragon in your arms, and I have no idea where it’s from."

Margo opened her eyes to glare at him, then looked down to her arms and froze. "I have a baby dragon in my arms," she said. "Why do I have a baby dragon in my arms?"

"Don’t move," Eliot said and extended his arms, casting the beginnings of a freezing spell.

"No, wait!" Quentin held him back with a touch to his wrist. "Dragons are immune to most kinetics. Uhm—and I think it might be a friendly?"

"Quentin," Margo said, her voice sharp as steel. "There’s a dragon who might breathe fire at any moment in this very flammable bed, mere inches away from me. You should be very very sure that it’s friendly."

"Uhm," Quentin repeated. "I’m certain?"

Eliot and Margo exchanged exasperated looks, and just as hurriedly looked back at the dragon who hadn’t moved an inch.

"Does nobody else remember the ancient Fillorian bonding ritual we did last night? I always thought the phrase eternally bound by the dragon was, you know, more of a metaphorical thing, but I guess it turns out it’s real?"

"What," Margo said in the flattest way possible.

Eliot looked down on Quentin’s hand, still holding onto his wrist. Quentin didn’t usually wear jewelry, and yet Eliot recognized the wide, polished band around his ring finger. The space were it usually would sit on his own hand was filled with a more dainty, filigree ring.

"We got married," Eliot said, half-unbelieving still.

Margo looked from one to the other, then down at the dragon. She seemed to come to some sort of resolution, because after a few seconds, she met both of their worried gazes and shrugged. "That's nice. But more pressing for me personally is the literally burning question in my mind: What are we going to do with the dragon?"


End file.
